|
Clandestination
A pathos hangs like a swag on the headpost of my black iron bed. It is lapis lazuli blue and its undertone is golden. It brings a crystalline man who whispers of marcasite and tourmaline. They gleam from the back of a gypsy van I cannot see. His eyes are like garnet charlotte beads -- one facet more than hex, unforgettable. He calls me Oya and thunder rolls, liberates the oil of a sandalwood box that sits beside my pillow. He polishes my extremeties as if they were silver. Bloodstone pours from the back of his van -- makes a path for stepping. He blesses me with rubies, and drives with a wind that transcends me through a wall made of jade. ©2003 Peggy Putnam Owen |